Unfinished

“Oh, Fuck.” She muttered as she peeled herself off of the asphalt. Somehow her Jaegermeister flip flops had betrayed her and she fell, face first, in the Target parking lot when exiting her car. Her jaw ached.

She tried to regain her balance (and her dignity) as she walked into the department store, head spinning, eyes throbbing. She hoped no one noticed how many times she attempted to park before deciding that, despite how hard she tried, she couldn’t stay in just one designated parking space.

After a breath, she stumbled toward the door just behind a young, well put together mom. Super Mom somehow managed to match her fitted, blue and white striped sweater with a pair of pink pumps, while her drooling mini-human was strapped to her chest. In her purse: organic gluten-free snacks and a green pressed juice; breakfast for mommy and baby. Super mom looked over at our heroine, as she wiped a dried, red stain from the corner of her mouth. Blood? Taco sauce? Last night’s lipstick? It was hard to say…

Super Mom picked up her pace. The polarization of the two young women was simultaneously hilarious and depressing.

Our heroine, (still drunk?), entered the department store, made a beeline to the bathroom, and vomited violently in the sink.

He fumbled with the zipper of his hoodie, heart pounding, mind racing. He looked in the mirror

I look fucking ridiculous.

He traded in his usual Italian Leather Oxford Bals for a pair of nice sneakers. At least, he thought they were nice… he paid enough for them. A shoe that had no other fucntion than to match his shirt (His son has stressed the importance of this).

His son. Jesus.

He’s closer in age than we are.

He didn’t actually ask her age… he assumed, and hoped, that she had at least a few years on his oldest son… 27? 24? 21? He pushed the thought out of his head.

Youth looks the same.

Besides, she hadn’t asked his age, either. In fact, she never commented on the generational gap.

He tugged down on the hoodie so that it smoothed the curves and valleys of his mountainous middle: expanding from his chest sharply, steeply climbing past his waist before sloping over into a cliff, an overhang above his belt line that quaked with every step. It seemed counterintuitive to wear more clothing to appear to have less mass… or at least, smoother, more compact mass.

Still, he refused to wear pants above the waist; he wasn’t that old.

He threw his hands deep into the pockets of his blue hoodie and cocked his left hip, leading with his right foot. He stared at the reflection. Unrecognizable. Was he trying too hard? Would she see right through the costume of youth and see the sad, old man underneath?

The multi-colored graffiti on the white tee-shirt peered above the half-risen zipper, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it was words or an image. He hoped she wouldn’t ask about it.

His hair and beard were littered with gray. It was thinner than before. If you caught him at the right angle from behind, with his guard down, you could see through to his scalp. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He grabbed a generous heap of moose and began the tedious process of manipulating what little hair he had left to cover where it would no longer grow.

His beard was freshly trimmed into a 20 year old memory of a jawline. He combed the dark brown dye through sections with precision; creating shadows and contours against the stark white contrast of a man a quarter of his age and half his size.

He readjusted himself in the dark wash jeans. He wasn’t entirely sure of the fit; the elastic band of his boxers stretched across where his hips became wider than his thighs. The jeans began 3-4 inches below that, the back pockets outlining his upper thigh. All of this purposeful mis-fitting was covered by the tee-shirt (that no one would fully see) and the blue hoodie to make him look more…compact…

…and to match these fucking shoes.

He nipped and tugged at the fabric masterpiece until he was satisfied, and completed his ensemble with a couple of sprays the cologne his wife had gifted him for one of their anniversaries… before he was gray.

TO BE CONTINUED.

1-12-16. 9 am. Jonas has left piles of snow to my waist on the unplowed streets. We sit in the only open coffee shop. Alone.

#3

I adore you. All of you. Is all I can dribble out in a sad attempt to find words for this feeling of elation I have just sitting across from you. It’s too soon to fully dive myself into more permanent exclamations, and I have not yet mastered the language well enough to describe feelings that seem bigger than myself.

#6

I forget to introduce you, not because I am ashamed of you… but because I feel like I’ve always known you.

“Who, him? What do you mean, you don’t know him? He is the extension of me. This man is the physicalization of my heart, body, mind. My place of wonder, dreams, contentment. My heart song. My euphoria. My eureka! My realization. My change… I’ve known him all my life.”

…or part of me has. A part of me that has awoken at last.

#5

I have never felt so full. There was always something missing before…

Rarely have I had the pleasure of sitting in complete contentment. I am spoiled by you. I want for nothing. I am not worried, anxious, troubled.

I am here.

Present in the presence of this present I have been given by you.

Bathing in an ocean of gratitude. Nourished in the light of you. The sight of you. “I’m happy just to be with you”, The Beatles chirp in my music box of my mind.

The highlight of my days require no plans or actions, but the freedom of just being with you. Just. BE-ing. Human BE-ing. Sitting in the moment, and enjoying it fully. Seeing color for the first time. Appreciating the love that surrounds me, in everything that we see… you’ve awaken my spirit, you’re my teacher…my guide… my yogi…my savior. I worship you. I could build monuments in your honor.

#4

This future icon of a man. This inspiration. Even the morning son can’t resist kissing your face as you search for your next move in the window revealing mother nature, now blanketed in snow… resting. Anticipating. Your face relaxed. Gorgeous eyes focused on something I can’t see. I want to trace and retrace the lines of your face until my entire body can recite you by heart.

Oh, my heart. She never stood a chance.

How this inspiration can find inspiration in the incomparable waking hours of downtown. The sun only seems more divinely delicious when reflected in your eyes.

I’ve seen the future. My words fail me as I try to describe how alive you make me feel… as if I’ve never known what it is to live until this moment.

#1

I am amazed by how captivated I am sitting across from you at this coffee shop; watching you work. Your creativity sparking with the light of new life in your deep mocha eyes and flowing, uncontrollably (overflowing?) from your fingers as you furiously scribble onto sheets of recycled paper…old invoices, correspondence, venues, contracts…

I love the process. Of you. My favorite is watching the wheels turn. My heart flutters. You leave me for a moment, your mind retreating to a realm in which your dreams are realized and brilliance is born. You take ownership of your deserved success. I’ve never believed in someone so undoubtably. I am taken by the profile across from me, like the oil painting portraits of great men collected and circulated in our history books, protected and displayed in the best museums. I want to study you.

You look out the window for a moment as you go on this journey. I can’t help being caught, entranced by you. This gorgeous profile of a man changing the world. Your eyes reflect the sunlight as she, in turn, highlights the intricacies of your face as if carved by Michael Angelo himself. You are a work of art. Worthy of the heavens.

#3

You are as focused as a soldier going into battle. Fearless as the undefeated commander. Passionate as the patriot. I believe in the cause; in you. I faithfully march to your war drums.

#2

Back and forth, like crashing waves resolving themselves onto shore, you switch from your accelerated writing, hardly keeping up with the speed of thought, then returning to the still, calm waters of deep thought. I feel honored to witness the sacred ritual of creation. You’re brilliant. Your process. Your limitless power. Your active creation of success.

But more than anything. I continue to be floored by this sight before me, evoking both uncontrollable desire/lust and overflowing, ever-grateful adoration.

#7

…I didn’t know this would be our last time together. I protested when you asked me to leave. I supported you endlessly. I don’t understand what you mean when you say I deserve what you can’t give. I didn’t ask for it.

We are creatures of habit. In a desperate pursuit of happiness, we deny our faults and label them “the past”, “change”, “growth”, “transformative”. We hold out for “new beginnings”. Are we truly changing? Have we found something real? of depth? This “true” emotion. Did we “just know” that it was “meant to be”? Are we complete now? Is this it? Is the lifetime search for wholeness finished?

Or are we victims of a build up of lactic acid, legs aching from running away?

Tired. Lonely. Horny….Bored.

It feels so easy to rest our burdens and responsibilities on another. In denying that we still have no fucking clue who we are, or how uninspired our own lives have been, we hide behind the façade of meeting someone new, impressing them…. feeding our glutionous egos with the free-flowing compliments that dribble out of the stupefied victim falling in love with us. A new beginning. “Like” me. Love me. Like a living, breathing Facebook page, I’ll only show you my best angles. Everything goes through my artfully sifted filter, designed to constantly impress and intrigue you. You’ll never know the truth; who I was before. Living for the approval of others. Un able to walk without holding a hand. Unable to live, to adventure, to invent without another. Unable to think without someone ele’s opinion being fed into my ear… non-organic inspiration. A people-pleasure. I’m in the business of making everyone around me happy, saying exactly what they want to hear into their fat heads.

No one knows. No one sees. So happy to be surrounded by self-assurance they don’t even notice that I’m not tangible. An apparition. Translucent. Reflective. Showing them how wonderful and worshipped they are… by me.

Giving them so much, there’s nothing left of me, for me. I don’t know how to just be. Desperate to find another to interact with me. Another to confirm my existence. I don’t know what to think of me without the approval of others. “Tell me what I am”.

#3.5

…..being far more cool and interesting than we ever were alone at home, watching Netflix in our underwear and half-heartedly masturbating while over indulging on foods with absolutely no nutritional value.

#4 – 1/9/16

God, She looked like shit.

There isn’t a better way to put it. This was the girl I remember winning me over with her incredibly tight frame, radiant charm, crystal-blue eyes and soft, plump pout. All eyes always on her. I just wanted to take her hand and drag her to everyone I knew. “Look how beautiful! Can you believe it?! She’s just as crazy about me!”

Late nights smiling uncontrollably just at the memory of her. A reminder of her scent flooded my body with what can only be described as divinity. I clung to her late in the night, refusing to let her go. Hanging on as long as I could. Her angelic face buried deep inot my chest. I was soothed to sleep by he soft purr of her slumber, as her light breath tickled my torso. “It’s so easy”, I thought… I was constantly clown away by her beauty. Waiting to wake up.

I was jolted awake.

Here she was, now, crystal blue eyes looking dull and lifeless, surrounded by a glossy mix of yellow and bloodshot red. A shaky foundation of deep, dark black and purple fought against the lower lids and allowed what little there was of her remaining to peer through. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wanted to shut out all of the light.

Her once lushes lips were thin, crusted over form lack of use, of hydration. They atrophied into a downward slope of dissatisfaction, fatigue and defeat. Her sweet milk completion had no faded into a malnourished pale , she could almost disappear into the gray winter cityscape, if it weren’t for the various red, dry and aching scabs littered around my former source of inspiration. The only proof of life in this decaying sight.

She had let herself go… that’s an understatement. Parts of her poked and prodded and tested the threading of her abused, dingy and wrinkled outfit. She spilled out of the top of her jeans, evidence that her shirt failed to disguise as she struggled to keep it below her navel. It fought with her as she violently pulled and tugged at it throughout the night.

Her hair reflected the street light like an oil spill, with small reminders of blonde throughout the long, hardened, neglected mess. It looked wet.

It felt unnecessary to force pleasantries. No one had the energy to deny the wrecked, soiled remnants of a battlefield standing before me. All I could manage to mutter was,

“You made it.”-

January 2016

#5

Why is it “endearing” and “charming” when the inspiration of pop songs are girls who drink coffee late, eat chocolate in the morning, spend all day in bed, take off their heels and refuse to mask their faults… but when I do it, it’s unhealthy, reckless, irresponsible, self-destructive and undesirable?

#7

I’m an overachiever. I enrolled in the advanced courses of Life. I like to study difficult Life lessons and learn them the HARD way.

#6

Dear God, I think I’ve lost him. I felt him leave me. I felt the love and light torn out of me.

I want to give him his space, but I know that’s all he needs to see a life without me… that’s all he needs to see; that he never needed me at all.

#9

She laughed until she cried. She felt both the release and immense anguish upon the realization that she had no idea what the fuck she wanted… no idea what she was doing. She had no idea who she was.

March 2016

#25

I’m itching for an affair… the rush of new infatuation through my veins. Thoughtlessness. Numbness. All pleasure all the time. Lust. My drug of choice.

I opened my eyes to the watercolor painting-esque figure meeting me at the bottom of my bourbon glass just before the oversized ice cubes crashed into the tip of my nose. The wavy apparition looked concerned. I swallowed the last smokey drop.

“The point of the ice is to sip your drink. You know, enjoy it”, the figure nagged.

I put down the glass with triumphant force as I politely wiped the remaining whiskey from my upper lip with the sleeve of my flannel. (Because I am a lady). The judgey bartender glanced over upon the thud of my quickly (impressively) emptied glass against the cherry wood bar top and quickly collected the glass, shaking his man bun side to side as he wordlessly refilled it, noticeably lighter on the rocks. I hoped the physical commentary wouldn’t shake his long, well groomed beard hairs into my drink. But appreciated that he didn’t bother asking the obvious.

There was something about her sweet face, squeezed between the hood of her bright blue winter coat, covered with snowflakes and a big eyed, platinum blonde Elsa from Frozen conjuring some winter war on her chest. The little one seem unphased by the stomach-churning aroma of decay and toxic secretions that had wafted from the streets of the city onto the train car. Mid-winter, the aroma dwelled any indoor heated area, as every living thing fled to the few available sanctuaries from the biting, relentless cold. I twisted my face in defiance of the sensory overload, contorting my nose so that only the minimal amount of oxygen could pop into my lungs; enough to keep me alive for my commute home, but sparing me from overindulging in the stench of overcrowded train car. Panting like a dog, I lamaz-breathed in my corner, while sucking in my “winter pudge”, (which had stuck around for the past two winters…and summers) as the next army of commuters crammed themselves, unrealistically into me.

But her face was angelic. So relaxed. So innocent. Absorbing everything, thrilled by something as mundane as the piercing recorded “ding” of the train doors closing. She was silent… unusual for such a little one. Unusual for rush hour. Unusual for this wildly unpleasant commute. Upright in the stroller. Thinking. Wheels turning. Absorbing. Judging?

Her mother was practically collapsed into the wall in physical defeat as she sat down for possibly the first time that day. Her head leaned into the once-reflective pole, now covered in slime New York. Still catching her breath, she stuffed old headphones into her ears immediately, mechanically…completely surrendering to the vibrations snare drums and rhyming couplets about superficial worries that seemed miniscule in comparison. The chord near the auxiliary connector was completely stripped; just exposed wires. I saw that she sought refuge here often. She looked young, and disinterested. We all got to enjoy her music that destroyed her eardrums with unforgiving volume levels.

She didn’t hear it the first time… I don’t know if anyone did.

More than usual this train was clouded with an exhausted and angry haze that seemed to pour in endlessly with every stop, leaking through the sliding doors:

They open. Another frustrated sigh. They shut. An annoyed glance flares violently across the car. They open again hurried footsteps exit, running down the weak, feeble and slow. They close, shoulders force their way through the sea of mediocrity and dissatisfaction. Another Wednesday. Halfway there, but it’s hard to see the glass half full instead of focusing on the fact that some asshole drank half your glass. All you had left.

But I heard her… A soft exclamation at first. Her eyes were completely fixated on… what? She was entranced.